


tea and cuddles for sick revolutionary idiots

by ingenious_spark



Series: Les Miserables drabbles [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Enjolras is the kind of person, Combeferre muses exasperatedly, who believes himself impervious to disease.</em> </p><p>In which Enjolras is ill, and Combeferre is exasperated (and a little bit worried, too)</p>
            </blockquote>





	tea and cuddles for sick revolutionary idiots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamstr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamstr/gifts).



> written as a present for hamstr/gentlemenbutts over on tumblr because cuties who draw cute art get cute fic when they're complaining about having read all of the sickfics and craving more

Enjolras is the kind of person, Combeferre muses exasperatedly, who believes himself impervious to disease. The truth of the matter is that he comes down with at least two colds every winter, and catches the 'flu every other 'flu season. He's also insufferable when he's sick, whiny and needy. Combeferre loves him, though, so the neediness is permitted. 

 Combeferre will never admit it, but when Enjolras gets needy while he's sick it's the best and really the most adorable thing Combeferre has ever seen. Enjolras hates having other people around him while he's sick, but Combeferre gets clung to. Invariably he also ends up sick, but he submits to it with grace, reminding himself that his immune system could probably use the workout.  

Enjolras is sick. It's mid-December, so they don't have to worry about exams or anything like that; but Combeferre had risen late today, so Enjolras had preceded him out the door. Sitting at the table in the cafe, with all their friends around them, though, Combeferre can recognize the signs for what they are. Bright spots of color rest high in Enjolras's cheekbones, and he keeps getting short of breath. The next stage is coughing, and after that severe congestion. Enjolras gets some of the most vicious head-colds Combeferre has ever seen. Combeferre glances around the table. No one else seems to have noticed, though Joly looks suspicious, and is keeping a safe distance and at least two people between himself and their illustrious _(stubborn)_ leader.  

No, wait.  

In his customary corner, Grantaire has been strangely reticent. Combeferre looks at him closer, and there is genuine concern in their drunkard's face; he has hardly touched the drink before him. Combeferre realizes that he has not seen the other man move to get another drink all evening long.  

Combeferre takes this as his cue, rising from the table to order a cup of tea with honey and lemon at the counter, in a to-go cup, before finding Enjolras's jacket, gloves, and scarf. Combeferre still can't get him to wear a hat in winter, though he's tried.  

"All right, everyone, the meeting is adjourned," he speaks in a soft voice, but his is a manner that commands attention when he speaks. "Someone is ill and refusing to admit it, and I'd just as soon get him home." Enjolras turns to him, indignation on his face and a protest on his lips, but Combeferre, through long acquaintance, knows how to best deal with Enjolras. 

He levels the other man with a skeptical stare, and Enjolras subsides, even as he moves to hold on to the edge of the table against what Combeferre knows is a dizzy spell. Combeferre sighs long-sufferingly and bundles Enjolras up efficiently, ending by pressing the cup of tea into his hands and steering him in the direction if the door amidst a tide of farewells and well-wishings. Grantaire meets Combeferre's eyes and merely offers a solemn nod, which he replies to with a quiet smile.  

Combeferre gets Enjolras home before the fever really sets in, leaving Enjolras huddled on their couch and clinging to Combeferre, layered in blankets and shivering. Combeferre manages to get more tea, some salty broth, and some medicine down him before giving in to the glassy, wounded, wide blue stare Enjolras fixes him with whenever he moves away. He snuggles down into the couch and sighs when Enjolras immediately buries his face in his chest, and grabs the TV remote.

He won’t be moving for a while, and this thought is corroborated by the evening of Enjolras’s wheezy breathing against his shirt. He flicks the TV to an interesting-looking documentary on the origins of paper and settles in. Half an hour later finds him asleep too, one hand wound in Enjolras’s curls.


End file.
